Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (15 page)

Wykes was unmoved. ‘Exactly. Which is why I wanted you here, face to face. I’m not much of a one for classified phone calls, and all that cloak-and-dagger nonsense.’ He reached over and refilled Masters’ glass, smiling. ‘While you get the chance, right?’

At that moment a telephone did ring, almost a gentle sound after the clamour of other offices Masters had passed.

Wykes picked it up. ‘Right on time.’ He replaced it. ‘Air raid warning. Not to worry, I’ll have one of my chaps take you to your hotel. What’s it like, by the way? I’ve only dropped in once myself,’ and frowned as the telephone whimpered again. ‘Excuse me.’

Masters tried to relight his pipe; it was not his usual tobacco. ‘A bit of Pussers was all I could get, sir,’ Coker had said.

He had in fact hardly noticed the hotel, except that it was near the Thames; he had seen the river when the car had dropped him there, to book in and show his credentials. The train had been late arriving, hardly surprising after its endless journey from Dorset, with stops on the line to allow a troop train to tear past, or while some unexplained delay was dealt with, and it had been
packed with passengers, most of them in uniform of one kind or another. With London opening out to greet them he had seen vapour trails twisting like ghostly writing against a washed-out sky. Two or three fighters. Young men trying to kill one another. One had eventually fallen from the sky, its smoke like a dying brushstroke.

Someone had exclaimed angrily, ‘That’s one less of the sods!’ He might easily have been wrong.

‘As I was saying, old chap.’ Wykes was back, legs crossed as he slumped in the opposite chair. His ankles looked as thin as a child’s wrists. ‘The Germans have had a lot of practice. In the Spanish civil war they had a team experimenting with landmines. Nobody
saw
or
heard
anything, of course. In Russia they’ve been using new ideas, with some success, but we only learned about that recently.’ He turned down his mouth. ‘From a neutral source, need I say?’

He glanced at the clock. ‘I have to go. Must see the gallant
Capitaine de Vaisseau
Lalonde over the side. He’s been very helpful in this matter.’ He smiled briefly. ‘But you know the French. They’ve never forgiven us Waterloo!’ He dusted some ash from his tie and lapels and added gently, ‘While I’m away, just think on this, old chap. A bit closer to home. Say, the Channel Islands, for instance? What if the answer to your device is right there for the asking?’

He gestured to the cupboard. ‘Help yourself. I’ll be ten minutes at the most.’

Masters stared at the door as it closed after him. A remarkable man, astute and clever. Dangerous if he wanted to be.

He tapped out his pipe in an upended shell case and tried to think back on all he had seen and heard.

This was a completely different world. At sea, or at
Vernon
’s various outflung sections, you always felt you were in the front line, the sharp end, as he had described it to Wykes only minutes ago. It was timeless here, too. But when the car had collected him at the terminus station he had been surprised by the crowds of jostling people. Every uniform and from every country, even those like the French captain Wykes had gone to see over the side, whose homelands were under occupation. It hardly seemed like a capital under siege. If a stick of bombs had been on its way down nobody would have heard it above the din of voices and traffic.

The Channel Islands? It seemed unlikely. He leaned forward in the worn leather chair. The only part of Britain occupied by the enemy, because there had been no way of defending them so close to the French mainland, and because of the death and suffering any such attempt would have caused. And the recriminations which would surely have followed.

He was still contemplating it when Wykes returned, rubbing his hands.

‘Gone off as happy as a priest at a funeral!’

He sat down, his fingers latched together on his bony knees.

‘Thought about it?’

‘I’m still floundering.’

Wykes did not relax or smile. ‘Your predecessor, Commander Critchley, was a man of importance and not a little influence even before he donned the King’s
uniform. I had dealings with him through this department. He was helpful with some enquiries which we were making about a certain Raymond de Courcy.’ He paused, his eyes asking an unspoken question. He seemed satisfied and continued, ‘Another powerful man, head of an electronics group in France. And at some time a partner of the late Commander Critchley.’ He broke off in another fit of coughing. ‘The war came. Raymond de Courcy found himself on the other side. A collaborator, they call them now, but often the only way to survive, I’m told.’

‘But surely Commander Critchley didn’t have any idea what was happening.’

‘He wanted to avoid the issue, of course. We were the ones who started to stir things up.
Then
, we were only poking sticks in the dark. Now we know.’

The overhead light flickered momentarily. Distant traffic or a bomb; it could have been an earthquake and nothing would change down here.

Masters said, ‘Where do I come in?’

Wykes smiled gently. ‘I’ve studied your record, both before and after the unfortunate loss of your command.’ He held up one hand. ‘It is a vital part of this job. Other lives depend on my being right or wrong, as much as if I had my own ship – more, in many ways. I was impressed by what you have achieved since that other time, and since your appointment to the countermeasures section down in Dorset. You’ve made a lot of progress.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘Otherwise you and I would never have met!’ It seemed to amuse him.

Masters tried to come to terms with it. ‘When we really know what it is we’re up against . . .’

The telephone buzzed twice and stopped.

‘When we know that, old chap, the war will doubtless have been over for six months.’

Masters stood up. It really was another world. He thought of Foley, in his own command, the feel of it when he had been aboard, when they had been running for base but had stopped to pick up the dead flier. There was nothing else like it; it had been infectious, even though he had tried again and again to put it behind him, not to lose himself again. Otherwise, survival was meaningless.

Wykes was peering around and patting his pockets, for more cigarettes no doubt.

‘You can scoot back to base, day after tomorrow.’ He saw the sudden protest in Masters’ eyes, and said evenly, ‘Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. The top brass must know what’s happening, and be convinced. You’d think they were paying for the whole war themselves!’ He tapped his sleeve, with what Masters sensed was a rare intimacy. ‘In fact, I was having dinner at the Savoy a few nights back. The place was wall-to-wall with red tabs and gold lace up to the elbows. My guest remarked that it would be quite a catch for Jerry if he managed to drop a bomb right on the lot of them. I corrected the poor fellow. Told him it would more likely do a hell of a lot of good for all concerned!’ He laughed and coughed again.

Then he said, ‘Don’t worry about your people. I shall see that you are kept informed until you get on that train
for Dorset.’ A glance at the clock. ‘Now, to another meeting.’

He shook hands, and their eyes met. ‘You’ll hear from me soon. Until then . . .’ He looked at the clock again. ‘Cloak-and-dagger indeed!’

For several minutes Masters stood alone in the quiet room. Critchley . . . was he never to be allowed to melt away like all those other faces? He thought of the old house with its damp wallpaper, the wardrobe where the uniform had been hanging as a reminder. And what of de Courcy, the collaborator? Perhaps he would learn more when he was himself fully trusted. Investigated. He half smiled. Cloak-and-dagger . . .

‘Your car’s ready, sir.’

He felt the man watching him as he walked out, and into the glare of the white-painted corridor. He probably saw many come and go from here. Maybe it was better not to think too much about it. Petty Officer Coker had the right idea.

‘Will you be requiring anything further, sir?’

The waiter was very small and molelike, his hands folded around a napkin like paws.

Masters looked across the dining room. Only a few tables were still occupied, and everyone was in uniform, even the only two women present.

He massaged his cheek, feeling the scar. The hotel was not large, but he imagined it had been expensive in happier times. He did not know London well, and had usually visited it only for official purposes. He grimaced. Like today. And tomorrow . . .

He could scarcely remember the meal, although the waiter had provided a bottle of wine to make it seem more of an event. It was no use pretending that rationing and shortages did not exist. Maybe it was different at the grander establishments. He thought of the enigmatic Captain Wykes.
Wall-to-wall with red tabs and gold lace up to the elbows.

‘A brandy, perhaps? Is that possible?’

The little man looked around and murmured conspiratorially, ‘I think we can manage that, sir.’

Masters glanced down at his wrist on the table, the two and a half gold stripes. His whole life. Once he had wanted nothing else, only the future and the next horizon. He shook his head, cursing himself. He should not have had the wine, not on top of Wykes’ Scotch.
R.H.I.P.

Maybe a walk before turning in . . . He felt his jacket pocket. At least he would be able to smoke his pipe without ruffling everyone’s feathers.

He remembered that he had seen a bellboy march past the restaurant with a sign on a cane, the sort they usually displayed when tracing a guest or visitor. All it had stated was
AIR RAID WARNING IN PROGRESS
. As far as he could tell, no one had taken any notice.

He heard a woman’s voice, low but insistent. ‘No, thank you. I can give it to him myself.’

Masters turned in his chair and saw her walking between the other tables, apparently towards him, the little waiter peering anxiously after her. She was wearing what looked like one of the old-style naval boat cloaks, a must for every young officer and hopeful in the
peacetime programme of regattas, reviews, and at some of the more desirable ships’ parties; the collar was turned up, and she had covered her head and shoulders with a shawl. As she moved beneath the lights he saw heavy droplets of rain on her clothing. He was also aware that the room had fallen silent, and faces were turning to stare.

He got to his feet but she shook her head. ‘No, no! Please do not disturb yourself. I hoped I might catch you, you see . . .’ A small bag appeared through the cloak and she snapped open the catch. ‘We thought you would be looking for it.’

She took out the lighter he always used for his pipe. It had a flame longer than most, something to be avoided if you were holding a cigarette.

‘Captain Wykes said you might be here.’ As she spoke she unconsciously pushed the shawl from her hair, shading her eyes, exactly as he had seen her in the conference room.

He took the lighter from her hand and said, ‘I hadn’t even noticed. Thank you.’ He felt stupid and clumsy, unable to think properly. ‘It was very good of you . . . I’m sorry. We were not introduced.’

She said, ‘I shall sit for a moment,’ and sat easily on the next chair. ‘But
only
a moment. You must be tired out after your full day here.’ She waved the little waiter away as he approached.

The cloak had opened across her knees and Masters saw that she was no longer wearing black or dark blue, he had never determined which in the glare and shadows of the conference room, but a dress of dark green, cut
low at the neck, beneath which she was wearing the same glittering brooch.

‘You are staring, Commander Masters!’ She softened it with a smile. ‘Perhaps I should not have been so direct. I have been told it is a bad habit of mine.’

Masters heard the murmur of voices returning to the restaurant. Who would not stare at her? Beautiful, striking; she was both, but very relaxed, and in control. She knew Wykes, but of course she would. And Wykes had a reason for everything he said or did. He was far too busy with yet another meeting to care about a lighter being abandoned in his office.

He said, ‘The brooch . . . I saw it earlier.’

She glanced down at it. ‘Jasmine flower. Yes, I like it a lot.’

It gave him a chance to watch her. Her hair was uncovered completely, and in the lights it had the colour of rich chestnut, loose across her forehead, and captured at the nape of her neck, he guessed, by a ribbon or cord.

‘Have you been out for the evening?’

She looked at him again, very directly. ‘I am just going out, Commander!’

She glanced towards the entrance. There were voices, and Masters recognized the tall figure of Capitaine Lalonde, impressive in full uniform, speaking on a desk telephone, wagging one finger to emphasize something.

She said, ‘It is best to be certain these days. Two seats for a cabaret are not easy to obtain.’

Masters looked at the long curtains which hid and disguised the shutters and blackout screens. He saw
them shiver, and imagined he could hear the dull thump of anti-aircraft fire.

He said, ‘Isn’t it rather risky?’

She had turned towards him again, one hand resting on her small bag.

‘You are not one to be afraid of taking risks, I think.’

It was not a casual remark. It was like a challenge, and at the same time, a barrier.

She raised her hand to readjust the shawl, and from the other room Masters heard someone laugh, and the telephone being slammed down. It was almost over. It had never begun.

He heard himself say, ‘I hope we meet again. After all, you know who
I
am.’

She regarded him calmly, the brooch giving the only hint of her breathing, her composure.

She half turned, frowning, and Masters saw Capitaine Lalonde standing in the doorway, beckoning urgently.

‘Come, Elaine! It is time!’

She deliberately reopened her bag and took out a small mirror, but did not use it. Used to having her own way. Or was it something else?

She had eyes like the sea, he thought. Blue, or smoky green. She snapped the bag shut and pulled the cloak across her body.